One giant leap (compared to a few small steps)
For many years I toyed with the idea of a blog. Besides the fact that I found it quite presumptuous that anyone would want to read anything that I had to say, I doubted my ability to say anything consistently. What is the point of a blog, if you do it once then show up a year later to maybe do it again? Then again, can this be the perfect tool for someone with great big ideas, but a very not so great, little attention span?
So, time and time again I revisited the idea of maybe, possibly doing slightly more than simply considering the conception of a blog. And, time and time again, the idea of a blog revisited me and considered doing something different, with this preconceived idea of a writer. It seemed...I was haunted. I would hear the haunting whispers of the blogging I should do while at the store. The little green ghost called envy would woooo, its way through the room whenever I read someone elses very crafty quip filled blog about whatever. I would hear the creaking of the dried up floorboards I called imagination lying unpolished in my head. And I even heard the squeaky hinges of half thought out ideas restlessly waiting in the thresholds of daydreams...their doors remaining unshut, yet not really satisfactorily opened either. The haunting remained in the cobweb filled forgotten, yet always there attic of my unwritten mind.
When most of us think of attics, we think dust and cobwebs and even spooky haunted things. But we also think lost treasures and memories. A safe and fun place to hide and play where old and tattered items fuel imagination. We find forgotten keepsakes hidden in old dusty chests that we were just a little afraid to open seconds before. This kinda sums me up. I am, by nature an extremist. Not by principle or in a behavioral or political or even emotionally reactive way. But sitting beside my gray and rational self is the eclectic wildly over analytical artist in me. One that generally lives, not in the warm center of my mind, but in the outskirts or the depths. This....is maddening. Yet, it is a great place to escape the walls of this very limited, unlimited world.
So, after pondering the idea of my blog being haunted I realized that I could not figure this one little detail out...Was it me who was haunting my attic, or was my attic haunting me? I will be sure to let you know as soon as I figure that out. But for right now I will begin to end right where I began to start....
I realized today, that at least for me, a blog was not actually about writing anything that anyone wants to read. It is about writing out loud, just because I can. Caging the words that often escape me. I decided this will be my therapy. Though I am not sure if it is writing me, or I am writing it. Unlike shouting from the rooftops, anyone who trips over my benign little blog still has absolute control over their free will. I simply cannot force myself on anyone. It is as invasive as noninvasive can be. A crazy hack screaming from a roof top can only send a voice as far as the nearest ear. But this...this can end up down the road, or in Japan. Being so comfortable in extremism, I find these points both comforting and disconcerting. The fact that people can find me by accident and stay....or hit that little boxed-in X to the top right, or backspace into the next parking lot means I can talk to the whole world...and no one has to listen. Or they can all listen, whatever. Too bad that does not apply to my singing at home....
So here I am. If you choose to stay a while you will notice a few things. I ramble...semi-coherently or brilliantly. I apologize in advance to both myself and you the reader (which may also be me). I write, the way I speak. Natural and unpunctuated. Confused and concise. I do not try to sound educated. I am not. I will not go out of my way to "smarten up" my marginal musings. You great writers out there may want to stop reading now...before you learn to hate me, if you haven't already. I will not drag you into the depths of my soul or launch into elaborate diatribes about life or the world or the people in it. My soul is neither deep nor shallow for it has no limits. How do you begin to discuss something like that? I will not be pondering the mysteries of the universe or the human mind...I have yet to figure out my own as their mysteries also seem without limit. You won't find intellectualism's because my intellectual mind is constantly being interrupted by my artistic mind. This little spot here is simply my creative refuse. Brain trash if you will. A place to store all my incomplete thoughts. My yet unwritten wild ideas that no one ever gets but me. A place to express all the things I seem to need to express, without actually having to see all the usual looks others seem to need to express back. (run-on sentences? yea, guilty). They cannot see what I can see. And that is ok. My mind is unfenced. For some that creates chaos and for others freedom. Personally, I like to sit where the fence would be if I had one. Grateful to be unlimited, yet as is typical for the extremist in me, creating an invisible fence. A self-limiting barrier to my goals, my dreams, my capabilities. A not quite closed door. One you want to see out of, but do not want to walk through. I either dread the idea of starting a project or I'm so excited I can't contain myself. I am ambitious but lazy. I start and if I have to work three days straight, I will. I won't stop to eat or sleep and will let things fall apart around me. They can wait. Because once I stop, I may never return to finish. I am exuberant but stifled. I am complex but simple. I am an artist without outlet. A writer with an ever blank page. Who I am on the inside is not reflected on the outside. Or am I not who I think I am? Exactly which "me" are we talking about here?
I am a Raven Cloud. Alter-ego. An illusion like any other cloud. Seen only from afar not within. The Reverie Muse, extremist extraordinaire. An artist without a niche. A writer with nothing worth reading. A full deck missing all her cards. A typo queen & punctuationophobe. You can love me and stay a while or hate me and run. Personally I believe that if you both love me and hate me, you will learn to like me a little, you'll find my flaws annoyingly charming and we will get along just fine....In that love to hate me, hate that you love me kinda way...I hope...ish.
Until you decide, I (we?) will be here, writing...or not.
Like a dark cloud in your blue sky...I too shall pass.
~A Raven Cloud without rain
For many years I toyed with the idea of a blog. Besides the fact that I found it quite presumptuous that anyone would want to read anything that I had to say, I doubted my ability to say anything consistently. What is the point of a blog, if you do it once then show up a year later to maybe do it again? Then again, can this be the perfect tool for someone with great big ideas, but a very not so great, little attention span?
So, time and time again I revisited the idea of maybe, possibly doing slightly more than simply considering the conception of a blog. And, time and time again, the idea of a blog revisited me and considered doing something different, with this preconceived idea of a writer. It seemed...I was haunted. I would hear the haunting whispers of the blogging I should do while at the store. The little green ghost called envy would woooo, its way through the room whenever I read someone elses very crafty quip filled blog about whatever. I would hear the creaking of the dried up floorboards I called imagination lying unpolished in my head. And I even heard the squeaky hinges of half thought out ideas restlessly waiting in the thresholds of daydreams...their doors remaining unshut, yet not really satisfactorily opened either. The haunting remained in the cobweb filled forgotten, yet always there attic of my unwritten mind.
When most of us think of attics, we think dust and cobwebs and even spooky haunted things. But we also think lost treasures and memories. A safe and fun place to hide and play where old and tattered items fuel imagination. We find forgotten keepsakes hidden in old dusty chests that we were just a little afraid to open seconds before. This kinda sums me up. I am, by nature an extremist. Not by principle or in a behavioral or political or even emotionally reactive way. But sitting beside my gray and rational self is the eclectic wildly over analytical artist in me. One that generally lives, not in the warm center of my mind, but in the outskirts or the depths. This....is maddening. Yet, it is a great place to escape the walls of this very limited, unlimited world.
So, after pondering the idea of my blog being haunted I realized that I could not figure this one little detail out...Was it me who was haunting my attic, or was my attic haunting me? I will be sure to let you know as soon as I figure that out. But for right now I will begin to end right where I began to start....
I realized today, that at least for me, a blog was not actually about writing anything that anyone wants to read. It is about writing out loud, just because I can. Caging the words that often escape me. I decided this will be my therapy. Though I am not sure if it is writing me, or I am writing it. Unlike shouting from the rooftops, anyone who trips over my benign little blog still has absolute control over their free will. I simply cannot force myself on anyone. It is as invasive as noninvasive can be. A crazy hack screaming from a roof top can only send a voice as far as the nearest ear. But this...this can end up down the road, or in Japan. Being so comfortable in extremism, I find these points both comforting and disconcerting. The fact that people can find me by accident and stay....or hit that little boxed-in X to the top right, or backspace into the next parking lot means I can talk to the whole world...and no one has to listen. Or they can all listen, whatever. Too bad that does not apply to my singing at home....
So here I am. If you choose to stay a while you will notice a few things. I ramble...semi-coherently or brilliantly. I apologize in advance to both myself and you the reader (which may also be me). I write, the way I speak. Natural and unpunctuated. Confused and concise. I do not try to sound educated. I am not. I will not go out of my way to "smarten up" my marginal musings. You great writers out there may want to stop reading now...before you learn to hate me, if you haven't already. I will not drag you into the depths of my soul or launch into elaborate diatribes about life or the world or the people in it. My soul is neither deep nor shallow for it has no limits. How do you begin to discuss something like that? I will not be pondering the mysteries of the universe or the human mind...I have yet to figure out my own as their mysteries also seem without limit. You won't find intellectualism's because my intellectual mind is constantly being interrupted by my artistic mind. This little spot here is simply my creative refuse. Brain trash if you will. A place to store all my incomplete thoughts. My yet unwritten wild ideas that no one ever gets but me. A place to express all the things I seem to need to express, without actually having to see all the usual looks others seem to need to express back. (run-on sentences? yea, guilty). They cannot see what I can see. And that is ok. My mind is unfenced. For some that creates chaos and for others freedom. Personally, I like to sit where the fence would be if I had one. Grateful to be unlimited, yet as is typical for the extremist in me, creating an invisible fence. A self-limiting barrier to my goals, my dreams, my capabilities. A not quite closed door. One you want to see out of, but do not want to walk through. I either dread the idea of starting a project or I'm so excited I can't contain myself. I am ambitious but lazy. I start and if I have to work three days straight, I will. I won't stop to eat or sleep and will let things fall apart around me. They can wait. Because once I stop, I may never return to finish. I am exuberant but stifled. I am complex but simple. I am an artist without outlet. A writer with an ever blank page. Who I am on the inside is not reflected on the outside. Or am I not who I think I am? Exactly which "me" are we talking about here?
I am a Raven Cloud. Alter-ego. An illusion like any other cloud. Seen only from afar not within. The Reverie Muse, extremist extraordinaire. An artist without a niche. A writer with nothing worth reading. A full deck missing all her cards. A typo queen & punctuationophobe. You can love me and stay a while or hate me and run. Personally I believe that if you both love me and hate me, you will learn to like me a little, you'll find my flaws annoyingly charming and we will get along just fine....In that love to hate me, hate that you love me kinda way...I hope...ish.
Until you decide, I (we?) will be here, writing...or not.
Like a dark cloud in your blue sky...I too shall pass.
~A Raven Cloud without rain
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